Photographic (39 page)

“Come in.”

She opened the door and there he was, sitting on the bed, his laptop in front of him, wearing tiny earphones; she only knew he had them on from the wires coming out of his ears. He wore red plaid flannel boxers, nothing else. Against the white counterpane, his red shorts, dark skin and hair stood out in sharp relief. When he listened to music, it usually indicated he was under the influence of a strong, sometimes unpredictable, mood. She never knew if the music created the mood or he listened to certain music because he was already held sway by a heavy mood. Sometimes she wanted to be around these moods, sometimes not. The earplugs were why he hadn’t heard the noise upstairs. He must have it turned up. 

She leaned in the doorway. They hadn’t talked since their return from the interview. Space was something she had needed and she hadn’t cared how he felt about it. Now she wanted to reconnect and not for the first time she felt awkward making the gesture to do it without losing face. She couldn’t read his expression. 

“Tam wants you. She’s been acting awful. Not listening, whining. Hitting the wall on purpose and being a grump. I guess the stress is getting to her.”

He pulled the plugs out from his ears one after the other. She knew he had heard her. He must have turned the music off when she came in. She ventured closer. Somehow being apart from him for those hours had sparked something in her, a desire for him that seemed to come up frequently now they were together again. It was like she’d gone cold turkey, been stone cold sober when she was alone on the farm. Now she was in danger of incurring a husband addiction. He looked serious, a little tired. It reminded her of when she’d come down and surprised him, and he’d refused her. She sat down on one corner of the bed. She felt aware of the silk against her skin, the sliding of the cotton robe over the silk nightgown. “She asked when we’re going home.”

He hit a few keys on his laptop and shut the case. He lifted it with his right hand and placed it on the nightstand on the right side of the bed, along with the little earphones. He ran his fingers through his hair. 

“Do you have any thoughts about when we’re going home?” As she listened for his response, she licked her parted lips, dry from the cool air of the flat. She drifted closer, up to the side of the bed. Without changing expression, he reached out and grabbed hold of the belt of her robe and pulled to him. They rested their foreheads against each other. She and cupped her hand over the side of his stubbly check, brushing it down his face. He mimicked her motion, feeling her smooth cheek with his hand calloused from
Odysseus
.

Their hands dropped and entwined. “Let’s go home." 

He leaned back. She saw his weary eyes, sad expression. He was in a mood. He smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

I
AN
HAD
CALLED
Marta and moved their appointment up to seven a.m. He found Marta waiting at the appointed spot in the cool misty morning. Today she wore pale clothes—just like her apartment. She smiled when she saw him and reached out both hands as he approached. He wasn’t sure how to react. It was as if they were old friends and she hadn’t seen him in weeks. As he got closer he reached out, clasping her hands. She leaned forward, presenting her check to be kissed. He obliged. She smelled of freesias.

They fell into step, heading in the direction they had walked the day she’d run off. Today her mood seemed ebullient. 

“How are you?” She asked as if she really wanted to know, and the answer was of utmost importance.

“Bit tired.”

“It’s okay. I couldn’t wait until nine either.”

“What?”

“I just love catching the sunrise. It’s the best moment of the day.”

“I see too damn many of those.”

She laughed and reached over to squeeze his arm. “You poor baby! As if you don’t get paid well enough for it!”

At seven a.m. Ian didn’t feel much like getting ribbed about how his paycheck should equal a permanent smiley face, so he didn’t say anything. 

Marta rubbed his arm. “Did I hit a sensitive spot? I’m sorry. Remove foot from mouth.”

“It’s okay.”

“How is everything going? Have you considered what I said?” 

“Well, I don’t know if you watch the telly, but we did an interview on the Martin Grosbek show and confirmed all the stories. It aired last night. I decided not to take your advice.”

Marta’s face altered so quickly it was almost comical. Her color became ashen, her expression distraught. 

Ian hurried on. “I really appreciate how you tried to help me, though, Marta. No one else came forward offering solutions. Only three people had any ideas at all about it, and you were one of them. I want to thank you for that.”

Marta gulped, some of her color returning. She swung her arms as she walked, as if trying to bring energy back into her deflated being. She finally spoke, after playing off her over-reaction with a fit of artificial coughing. “I’ve been on a sort of media diet, lately.” 

“That sounds good.”

“I’m turning over a new leaf.” She shoved her hands in the deep rectangular pockets of her loose linen trousers.

“Glad to hear it.” They walked on for a while. 

Marta kept her eyes on the ground. “How are things with Jane?”

“Oh, we’ve had our moments.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to work it out?”

Ian frowned as he glanced over at Marta, who dragged her eyes up to meet his. “What do you mean? I mean, are you asking as a friend, or, as a…, er…”

She seemed to have lost her breath. “Or?” Her eyes glowed.

Something about the way she spoke and the way she looked clicked in his brain. They were not talking about the same thing. He stopped in his tracks. “Marta.”

“Yes, Ian?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand,” he began. He changed tacks. “I haven’t told you our plans.”

“Your plans?”

“Yes. We’ve decided to go home. Jane and Tam and I are flying home today at two o’clock. That’s why I changed the time of our meeting this morning. We’ve decided to go home and work things out.” He gave her a little time to process what he was saying. “I’m so grateful for what you did for Jane, giving her the flat all this time. You were right, you were a good friend. And now you’ve been a friend to me, too.” He bent down and kissed her on the cheek, pretending not to see the fullness in her eyes. 

“You’re welcome. Anything I could do.” She smiled hard before turning away to plow ahead. He had a hard time keeping up with her for a few strides. 

“Maybe we’ll see you sometime on the other side.” He felt like he was in college again and had just stomped all over a friend’s tender emotions.

“Right.”

As they parted he wondered for the first time where she was staying. They had her flat.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

A
RRIVING
AT
H
EATHROW
to board the jet, they faced down a phalanx of photographers before they entered the secure area. Their last farewell to Britain, the final sendoff. The lads, and one or two lasses, behind the lenses. An electric light show of flashes, enough to start an epileptic attack in those susceptible, burning eyes of light opening and closing behind them as they exited the stage of public consumption to fly away home.

After passing through security, on the way back from the loo, Jane bought some luridly illustrated magazines and tabs, while Ian was waiting for her. If he didn’t see them, it was almost like they couldn’t hurt him. But somehow, it felt to her like those words written somewhere in the world tainted his good name. Those slanderers threw dirt at his image, and some of it couldn’t help but stick, hurt him professionally and personally. His wife was reading it, after all. They had her ear.

She tucked them away in her bag, except for one which caught her eye and she read on the spot.

IAN REILLY’S NANNY TALKS: LIFE INSIDE NOTTING HILL FLAT

Marie-Renée Ledoux gives a startling picture of life inside the not-so-secret Notting Hill hiding place of visiting American wife-in-turmoil, Jane Reilly. Her London appearances in recent weeks, in the aftermath of the spectacular rumors circulating about husband Ian’s dalliance with cast mates Delaney Corts and verification of his on-film affair with Vaughn Santineau on
Odysseus,
have fueled wild speculation and interest. Finally, many questions are answered by this interview from an inside witness. As temporary nanny to daughter Tamsin, six, Ledoux was given untrammeled access, witnessing the mental states of mother and child, and finally meeting and evaluating the appeal and motivations of Ian himself. 

"Hell!" Jane skipped down a couple paragraphs about Marie-Renee’s background and her comments about the constant persecution by photographers, blah blah blah, to the part about Ian.

About Ian Reilly, Ledoux had other impressions. “I have had some brief time to observe. It is doubtful a man of such appearance would be likely to confine himself to one woman, unless he is of a very fidelity (sic) nature, a true monogamist; and hardly to be expected, in my experience. He has the
je ne sais quoi
, apart from looks, that pull women to him, like bees to a flower—they cannot help but gather round—and the flower cannot help its attraction, its scent from carrying on the wind. I do not blame Ian Reilly. His wife, she is pleasant, quite ordinary, but him, he perhaps has the need of an open mind in a wife to tolerate his nature.”

Fuming, she crumpled the paper up into a ball and stuffed it into the nearest trash. She felt her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Marie-Renée.
Marie-Renée
. Sweet Marie-Renée, whom she had laughed with, and who took such good care of Tam. Who had an honest face, a charming crooked nose pierced with a tiny diamond, who came from North America, too. Who was friendly and droll, and never pried. Tears of anger sprang to her eyes and she bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. Who knew she had such opinions about her employer’s husband and his marriage, just beneath the surface, and so poetically expressed, too? Marie-Renée had barely said hello to Ian.

Jane stalked to a water fountain and lay her mouth into the cool stream. Hadn’t it occurred to her how Marie-Renée was always available? She supposed she had attributed it, out of vanity, to the fact that she liked them, that she kept herself free or cancelled other people because she had become attached to Tam. Who wouldn’t become attached to their sweet child? She brushed her hand over her wet lips and rejoined her family, waiting for her at the gate. 

Thank God they were going home.

Once on the plane, it felt like a move closer to something real and unifying. Something was changing, every hour, each time Ian looked over and caught her eye and they confirmed with each other again, this is what we want. Sometimes she had to look away to let the tears come so she could wipe them away privately, for the connection she had lived without, the dissociation that had become acceptable and everyday and she had lived with as normal. They held hands and she rested her head on his shoulder while Tam drew pictures on a sketchpad.

What life would be like at home, she didn’t know. Only that what had been was over, and it wouldn’t ever be exactly that way again. She wasn’t that person anymore. 

The long mesmerizing highway drive home, white lines disappearing in a ribbon behind them. Tam running up to the front door and pounding it with her hands to get in. Home. Delicious evening air wafted into the house as Ian went around throwing up all the windows, blending with the even more delicious complicated smell that meant their house, sitting waiting for them. They left their luggage piled in the front hall by the staircase and crashed on the sofa in the living room. Lying there comfortably for a while, it was easy to let go of the past few weeks and be content. 

The phone rang. Ian groaned. 

“Don’t answer it.”

“Who could it be?” Tam bounced up. “We just got here. How do they know we’re here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re taking satellite pictures now.” 

“Like outer space?” 

Ian extricated himself from the pile of bodies and lumbered over to the telephone, ogre-like, making Tam chortle. She raced to the window to look for signs from outer space.

In the living room they could hear one side of the conversation from the kitchen.

“Hello?...Oh, hi…Is that so?...You don’t say…That’s something I don’t have a lot of control over…I think you need to talk to him about that…There’s a question of artistic integrity…I thought you were on the side of creative innovation…Now that’s uncalled for…You weren’t there, and you haven’t talked to me about it…Well, it hasn’t…Goodbye.”

He came back shaking his head and sat in the chair by the fireplace. Jane swung her legs down and sat up. “What is it?”

“That was Stan. He’s upset about the film—the publicity— and how it’s being cut. He’s afraid of the NC-17. Tor isn’t being cooperative. Shocker. There’s nothing he can do about it, because Tor has final cut and put in a clause for the possibility of the tougher rating. They were crazy enough to allow it.” He glanced at Tam. “Stan’s not happy with me, either.” 

“You’ve always gotten along.”

“Yeah.” He stroked his hands over his face. “He has a lot of power. I don’t know what this means.”

“Without you there are no films.”

Ian dropped his hands in his lap and sighed. “That’s not true. There’re twenty behind me lined up to take my parts. Ready and waiting.”

Jane sat for a moment, staring at him. “There’s no one like you. Not even close. There’s probably a hundred ready to take your place, but they couldn’t do it like you. So you could leave it if you want to, or if they chase you out, but that doesn’t take away your gift. No one can take it away. You could go back later, when they’ve burned out and blown away, and still have it all to give. Don’t you forget it.”